


Heaven's Waiting On Down The Tracks

by Juul



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Christmas, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-06 12:03:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 13
Words: 8,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5416223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Juul/pseuds/Juul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Different Christmas Eves in different stages of Sam and Dean's relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Simple Twist of Fate

**Author's Note:**

  * For [noahsnowflake](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=noahsnowflake).



> A collection of moments between Sam and Dean Winchester, written for Wincestmas 2015, for noahsnowflake

**Simple Twist Of Fate - Bob Dylan**  
 _Felt an emptiness inside to which he just could not relate / brought on by a simple twist of fate._  
Christmas Eve 1983, boys are 0 and 4 years old.

It’s December 24th, 1983, almost two months after the fire, and they’re still at the shelter. Later, Dean will only remember the set of toy cars he found at the foot of his bed the next morning; Christmas morning. He won’t remember the way Dad was too drunk the night before to attend dinner, and how Dean held Sammy on his lap while he sat at the table with a bunch of homeless people and drug addicts. They regarded him with something like awe, gave him and Sammy a wide berth, and he was glad of it. It made him feel bigger than his four years, to be cradling this teeny tiny infant, with the pink toes almost too small and fragile to touch. He won’t remember how the volunteer at the shelter burnt their dinner a bit, and the scorched smell made him nauseous. He won’t remember thinking that Sam was his, but then again it seems, now, like he has always known that, like it has always been true.

It was the ending of everything, and the beginning of everything, those first fragile months after the fire. It meant, for Dean, losing everything he’d ever had, losing everything he’d never known to be thankful for. And it was during those days, the gray walls and the soggy food and the cartoons on the tv blending into one another and Dad always asleep, that Dean gained a whole world. Sammy was with him now, Sammy was his, and Dean was needed. In spite of the crippling sadness, it felt like a miracle.


	2. 2. You're My Only Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Eve 1993, the boys are 10 and 14 years old

**You’re My Only Home - Magnetic Fields**   
_I will stay if you let me stay/ And I'll go if you let go/ But I won't go far away/ Because you're my only home_

It’s Christmas Eve of 1993, and Dad doesn’t care about trivialities like Christmas. If there’s a Woman In White to hunt then hunt her they shall, no matter what day of the year it is. He hasn’t been so heartless as to make his sons accompany him in the bitter Minnesota cold, but he does come straight to their motel room after the hunt is finished, a giant gaping wound in his shoulder leaving seasonally appropriate tracks in the snow. 

Dean doesn’t panic. He only ever panics when shit like this happens to Sammy. He’s in that rebellious teenage phase where he tells himself he wouldn’t mind if something happened to Dad, even though he knows that’s a blatant lie.

So Dad comes to the motel, and Dean, who isn’t old enough to drive yet but who gives a fuck, immediately drags him back to the Impala and takes them to the nearest hospital. He doesn’t even notice that Sam sneaks in the backseat, but in retrospect he should have known.

Luckily, the people behind the desk know better than to ask a fourteen year old smeared with his father’s blood for insurance papers, and Dean is given a cup of tea and told to wait. Sam trails behind, drinks Dean’s tea and asks a lot of questions. Nothing happens for a while, and then they’re informed that their Dad is in surgery.

“Let’s go sleep in the car,” Sam says. “It’s cold here, and it’s late.” He gestures towards the clock and Dean sees that, indeed, it’s two in the morning.

He readily agrees, as he does with almost anything Sam asks for that he’s able to give him.

“M’am?” The lady behind the desk looks up. “Me and my brother are going to our car for a bit. Our Dad’s in surgery upstairs. Can someone come get us if there’s any news?”

She gives him a pitying look. It’s the middle on the night, it’s Christmas, and Dean has just basically told her he and his little brother sleep in their car. He doesn’t wait for her to reply, he just walks out with Sam on his heels.

Usually, they toss a coin to decide who gets the backseat, but this time, Sam timidly tugs at Dean’s jacket. The gesture makes him seem years younger. 

“Dean?”

“Yeah?” Dean’s tired, but his expression is soft and intent, like what Sam’s about to say is the most important thing in the world.

“Can we share the backseat?”

Dean grins widely. They haven’t shared the backseat in years, because Dad kept insisting it would be uncomfortable, and why should they? Sam’s never said aloud that he can’t really sleep without the warmth and the weight of his brother next to him, and Dean has never even allowed himself to think it.

“Yeah, Sammy. ‘Course we can.”

Dean gets in first, kicks off his shoes and dumps them in the front seat. He takes off his jacket and wraps is around his shoulders like a blanket, then he turns onto his side and gestures for Sam to join them. Sam scoots in, kicks off his shoes into the front seat, and lies back against his big brother. He’s the little spoon, and he truly feels little with Dean’s strong arm around him.

“Love you, De.” mutters Sam.

“Love you, Sammy. Go on, get some sleep.”

Despite the cold and his worry about Dad, Sam falls asleep quickly. Dean stays awake for a while longer and listens to Sam’s breathing. That is the first moment Dean realizes he might be in deep trouble where his little brother is concerned.


	3. Desire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Christmas Eve 1997, the boys are 14 and 18 years old

**Desire - Ryan Adams**  
 _You know me, you don't mind waiting/ you just can't show me, but God I'm praying,/ that you'll find me, and that you'll see me,/ that you run and never tire/ desire_  
Christmas Eve 1997, boys are 14 and 18 years old

It’s Christmas Eve 1997, and Sam can’t help but wish he was still a child, or an adult already. Anything, as long as it allowed him to skip the insane sensation of being a teenager. He’d never believed Dean when he’d said it was maddening, the hormones rushing about like a tangible presence, so strong that Sam felt ready to punch a hole in the wall. With all of Dad’s drills, he could probably do it, too.

“Dad?”

They’re at the kitchen table of the latest rented apartment, somewhere in Indiana, having mac and cheese. The real stuff, not the pre-packaged plasticky shit, because it’s Christmas Eve.

“Yes, Dean?”

In a rare show of fatherly affection, Dad doesn’t seem drunk or annoyed with either of them.

“Can I go out for a bit after dinner?”

John shrugs. Dean’s been allowed to do pretty much whatever he wants for years now, much to Sam’s growing irritation. 

“Sure. You doing anything special?”

The gleeful look on Dean’s face suggests so. He looks at his plate and murmurs:

“Linda asked me to go ice skating with her.”

“Ice skating?” John sounds amused, but not disapproving. “With a girl? On Christmas Eve?”

Dean blushes and nods. He’s been known to sleep with waitresses and high school girls and the occasional damsel in distress, but he’s the king of wham-bam-thank-you-m’am. There’s always a clear no strings attached rule with Dean. Ice skating on Christmas Eve, and blushing about it, suggests a level of emotional intimacy that’s far from normal for Dean.

Sam pushes his chair back, and it makes a loud scraping noise against the linoleum. 

“I’m sorry, Dad,” he manages, “but I don’t feel well. May I be excused?”

Dad waves him off, and just before Sam closes the door to their bedroom, he hears his voice: 

“Now, don’t get too attached, son. The case is already coming to a close.”

He can’t make out Dean’s reply, because he’s already pushed his face and ears into the pillow. It’s taken a long time, but Sam’s just about ready to face the facts: he’s in love with Dean. Needless to say, carrying a torch for your dead sexy older brother is the worst form of torture Sam has ever endured, and he’s endured quite a few for his fourteen years.

Dean is pretty superficial when it comes to romantic encounters. He fucks whatever’s blonde and attractive and has a nice pair of legs, and he’ll leave before the morning. This sudden desire to go ice skating deviates from Dean’s normal pattern, and as such it interferes with Sam’s carefully cultivated emotional shields. What if Dean’s going on a real date with this girl because he has real feelings for her? The thought makes Sam’s throat feel tight.

As if it wasn’t awful enough to see Dean kissing pretty cheerleaders at every new school they attend. He can’t blame them, there has never been a better looking human on earth than Dean Winchester. They drool over him. It’s the combination of endearing green eyes and a dangerous smile, Sam thinks. It’s the leather jacket and the sleek car and the way he swaggers wherever he goes like he’s never heard of being in a hurry. It’s his knowledgable, quick fingers pointing a gun at whatever monster they’re hunting. It’s the harsh way he says “no,” every time Sam asks to tag along on a hunt. Well, maybe that isn’t really appealing to the cheerleaders, but it certainly is to Sam.

There’s a knock on the door. Sam doesn’t react. Whoever it is will come in anyway. He shares this room with Dean, so he has no right to keep him out, and Dad does what Dad wants to do. It’s Dean, though. Sam can tell by the rhythm of his footsteps.

“Sammy? Hey, Sam?”

Sam doesn’t move.

“Hey, Sammy, do you still have those ice skates from last year?”

Sam grumbles something. No way is Dean going to borrow his ice skates and stretch them out with his gigantic feet, just so he can go on a date with a girl. Who is this Linda, anyway? Doesn’t she have any better ways to spend her Christmas Eve?

“Sam.”

Dean’s sat down now, and he’s got one hand stroking Sam’s hair down to the nape of his neck. Sam flips over and pushes him away, but only because the pads of Dean’s fingers are unbearably arousing against his skin and he just can’t deal with that right now.

“Sammy,” Dean’s voice is cautious and, Sam shudders to think it, sounds like he understands exactly what’s going on. “Would you like to go ice skating with me?”

Sam’s more than a little surprised. “What about Linda?”

“She cancelled on me,” he says, loud enough for Dad to overhear, “family emergency or something.” Then he leans down and his breath is hot against Sam’s ear as he whispers: “There never was any Linda, I just wanted to take you out.”

Sam doesn’t quite manage to suppress his shiver. Is this it? Could this be a date?


	4. 4. Papa Was A Rodeo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Eve 1998, boys are 15 and 19 years old.

**Papa Was A Rodeo - Magnetic Fields**   
_I see that kiss-me pucker forming/ but maybe you should plug it with a beer_

It’s Christmas Eve of 1998. One year exactly, Dean can’t help but think, since he took Sam ice skating. One year since they held mittened hands, and shared a hot chocolate because they couldn’t afford two of them and whipped cream and marshmallows, but decided that half the whipped cream and marshmallows was better than none, except Dean let Sam have all of the marshmallows. 

It’s been a year since that heart-stopping breathtaking moment where Dean convinced himself that his little brother might kiss him, on the mouth, and that maybe, for once, everything would be okay. Except he didn’t and it wasn’t.

Dean’s in love with Sam. Has been for as long as he can remember, really, if the scorching all-encompassing fire he feels can be described as love. It’s affection and loyalty and admiration and a childish crush all blended into one big entangled mess, and most of the time Dean hates himself for it.

He hates himself for the girls he kisses under the bleachers while imagining they’re Sam. He hates himself for waking up in the morning hard, so hard, and scooting quickly away from Sam to keep god-knows-what from happening. He hates himself, most of all, for the time they went ice skating last year, and for how that was probably the happiest moment of his life.

Ever since, he’s afraid Sam has cottoned on. They haven’t been on dates since, if that’s what you can call the Marshmallow Incident of 1997. They’ve been on hunts, they’ve attended schools, they’ve spent almost every waking moment together and all of their sleeping ones, but that’s all. Dean has kept his eyes to himself, has kept his hands to himself, has mostly been able to control the words coming out of his mouth. One time, he slipped up and accidentally called Sam “sweetheart.” Sam’s blush didn’t die down for days.

However, now Dean’s nineteen years old, and Sam is going to be sixteen next year, and sixteen is the magical boundary in his mind. Sixteen isn’t grown-up, it isn’t even close, and Dean cringes to remember some of the dumb shit he got up to when he was sixteen, but he’s made a deal with himself. Somewhere, sometime in the year that Sam is sixteen years old, Dean will tell him exactly how much he loves him and in what way, even if it kills him.

Sam’s not sixteen now, though. He’s sitting at a plastic gray excuse for a dinner table, sneaking a sip of Dean’s beer, and he looks so absolutely fantastic Dean would say there was something supernatural at work, if he didn’t know Sam was always, always, always this beautiful. Dad’s away on a hunt and their aloneness weighs down on him heavily. It tastes of nervousness and wrongness and, worst of all, opportunity.

“Dean?” Sam’s voice is low, careful, like one would talk to a frightened animal.

Dean looks over at Sam from where he’s sitting on the couch, sees the glint of Sam’s hair in the light of the Christmas-themed candles Sam insisted on, feels the alcohol buzzing through his veins and squeezes his eyes shut.

“Dean, will you come sit over here?”

“No,” he croaks out. “No, Sam, I’m sorry, I can’t.”

He wishes they didn’t both know what he meant, but he’s suddenly horribly certain that Sam does know, that he asked specifically to tempt Dean, to tease, to manipulate. 

Dean groans, then says again: “I’m sorry.”


	5. 5. Christmas Eve With You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Eve 1999, boys are 16 and 20 years old. This fic was inspired by the song performed by the Glee Cast.

**Christmas Eve With You - Glee Cast**  
_the best things in life/ are totally free/ and waitin' for me is Christmas Eve with you_

 

“Dean! Dean, look what I got!”

Sam’s sixteen years old, and his voice cracks a bit with excitement. Dad’s out on a hunt again, because “monsters don’t care about Christmas, boys,” but at least this year they’re in one of Bobby’s specially equipped hunter’s cabins. It has a fireplace and a little bit of an atmosphere, and Dean’s even managed to find them a real Christmas tree. Not that he’s got anything to decorate it with.

“Watcha get, Sammy?” 

Dean’s in a good mood, because Sam’s in a good mood, but he’s also nervous. Tonight’s the night he’s going to tell Sam. That the smoldering looks across the dinner table and the accidentally walking in on each other in the shower and the jerking off while sharing a bed means something more to him. Dread sits heavily in his stomach, along with the big bite of raw gingerbread dough he just had to eat earlier.

Sam’s carrying a big cardboard box but he lowers it as he enters the kitchen and makes an exaggerated sniffing sound.

“Ooh, you’re baking gingerbread?”

His eyes sparkle more brightly than any star, Dean thinks. Then he berates himself for being a sap.

“Yeah, of course, Sammy. Whatcha got there?”

“It’s Christmas decorations,” Sam exclaims, like he brought home the greatest thing since sliced bread. Dean’s got to admit, maybe he has.

“Where did you get those?” he makes sure his tone of voice is sufficiently impressed.

“They belonged to the school. Miss Seaborn was going to give them to goodwill and then I told her we didn’t have any.”

Dean frowns at him.

“Don’t worry,” Sam adds, “I told her our cat peed on them, so we needed new ones. She was happy to be rid of them.”

Dean smiles again. “Let’s see ‘em!”

Sam opens the box. There’s garlands and a string of lights and enough decorations to make the tree look gorgeous. There’s napkins with Santa on them that Dean puts on the table for dinner. There’s cookie cutters to make gingerbread men, and there’s a nativity scene made out of wooden figurines, that Sam arranges on the coffee table. At the bottom of the box is mistletoe. He makes sure Dean’s got his attention on the pasta he’s cooking before attaching the mistletoe to the doorframe of their bedroom. 

Sam sits at the dinner table, nervous butterflies fluttering around in his stomach, and waits for Dean to prepare dinner. It’s a delicious dish, real, actual stake and roast potatoes and green beans with little pieces of bacon mixed in. They eat in relative quiet, because Dean’s too blissed out by his own culinary accomplishment to say much, and Sam can’t stop looking at the way Dean’s eyes light up with enjoyment, can’t stop listening to the happy little humming sounds his brother is making.

Sam eats next to nothing and shuffles the green beans around on his plate hoping to distract Dean from them. 

“I want to tell you something.”

Those are the words he decided on after much deliberation, they’re the words he practiced in the mirror a thousand times, yet they feel strange and foreign in his mouth. He’s never had to tell Dean anything before, Dean always just knows. What if Dean knows this thing, too?

Their eyes meet across the table and Sam suddenly thinks that Dean might.

“Are you sure, Sammy? Are you absolutely sure?”

It’s a way out, it’s permission to go on pretending nothing is going on, it’s an encouragement to go back to their twisted version of normal. Sam discards it and takes a deep breath.

“I’m in love with you, Dean.”

There is no disgust on Dean’s face. There is no horror, no pity, there isn’t even a lot of surprise. There is a moment, no longer than a heartbeat, no shorter that an eternity, in which Dean doesn’t react. Then he smiles, he grins, his whole face lights up and his eyes are ablaze and Sam thinks he’s never seen the sun before this moment, because it has never shone as brightly as Dean does in this moment.

“Is that why you hung that mistletoe over there, little brother?”

Sam shivers. “Dean,” he warns.

Dean just blinks at him.

“Dean?”

“I’m in love with you too, Sammy.”

With a loud scraping noise Dean’s out of his chair, and so is Sam, and they’re closing in on each other, as close as they are in the car, as close as they are when sparring, as close as they are to whisper in each other’s ear, and closer still, and then they’re kissing. Sam isn’t exactly sure who started it, but it’s marvelous. Dean’s mouth is, well Dean’s mouth, and it’s so soft and delicious and tastes a bit like steak gravy, and he’s so gentle, so careful, and for one quick moment Sam thinks he’s going insane.

“I’ve never done this before,” he breathes against the curve of Dean’s upper lip, and the effect is immediate.

Now, he’s being kissed, his head held still between Dean’s hands and tilted slightly upward to get the angle just right, and Dean pulls at his lower lip and bites it softly, then does the same with his upper lip. He angles Sam’s jaw so his mouth falls open, and slowly, gently, licks his way inside. This isn’t kissing, Sam thinks, this is devotion.

It goes on for an immeasurable length of time, and the kiss changes, like it has a mind of its own. One moment it’s Dean kissing Sam, softly, then roughly then softly again, the next moment it’s Sam kissing Dean tentatively and copying every movement Dean has just demonstrated. Sam’s lifted off his feet, and he barely notices because it’s already like he’s flying and he’s so hard but he never ever wants to move beyond this beautiful, fragile moment. 

He’s placed carefully on the couch, and Dean is all over him, kissing his lips then his jaw, his neck and a secret little spot behind his ear.

“I love you, Sammy,” Dean whispers. “Merry Christmas.”


	6. 6. How Bad Do You Want It?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Eve 2000, boys are 17 and 21 years old

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for underage sex in this chapter, folks. Don't like, don't read yaddayadda.

**How Bad Do You Want It - Don Henley**   
_How bad do you want it?/ how bad do you want it?/ how bad do you want it?/ not bad enough_

 

It’s pretty much become tradition by now, that John’s absent on Christmas Eve. However, lately, John’s absences have begun to take on a new meaning to Dean, and to Sam especially. He’s ruthless, relentless, absolutely determined to get what he wants. And what he wants is to be fucked by his older brother.

He’s seventeen years old, god damn it, Dean had slept with dozens of girls by the time he was Sam’s age, and just the thought makes Sam’s blood boil. Not because it’s unfair, even though it is, but because Dean belongs to Sam now, only to Sam, because he has always belonged to Sam, really.

They’ve had dinner already, and they’ve both eaten a bit too much but that’s what Christmas Eve is for, and they’re on the couch. Sam takes a sip of beer, makes sure to tilt his neck so that Dean can see the movement of his Adam’s apple, makes sure to close his eyes as he swallows and give a contented sigh and huddle a little closer into Dean’s side.

“Sam.”

Dean’s voice is stern, as if he knows exactly what Sam is doing, as if he disapproves. It makes Sam’s breath hitch a little, to hear the roughness of Dean’s voice.

“Sam, look at me.”

Sam looks at him, eyes wide and mock innocent, and gives a small smile.

“I want you to fuck me,” he says sweetly, as though he’s just asked for the remote.

Dean’s eyes fall shut for a moment, then snap open, and then Dean is on him, crawling into his lap, holding Sam down with his thighs and pushing him further into the couch so he can’t move, can’t do anything but let himself be kissed.

“You want what now, baby brother?”  
Here it comes, Sam thinks. Here comes the thing that is so unbearably arousing he sometimes dreads what he would do to get it, sometimes fears he’ll lose himself in its deliciousness. Here comes Dean’s gravelly voice saying the filthiest shit it can, making Sam absolutely crazy with desire.

“I,” his voice cracks, “I want you to fuck me.”

Dean looks at him, eyes bright, cheeks red, then whispers: “Yeah?”

Sam can only nod.

“You want me to fuck you, baby boy? You sure about that? Because I’ll do it, you know. I’ll fuck you until all you can say is “Dean,” and “please.” I’ll fuck you so good you’ll never want anyone else.”

“I don’t want anyone else,” Sam interrupts.

Dean smiles, and continues: “I’ll fuck you for hours and hours, until you’re trembling and crazy with pleasure, until you’re all slippery and wet and open and you don’t think you can possibly cum again. Then, I’ll fuck you some more, and after we’ve slept for a while, I’ll fuck you again.”

That’s it. Sam pushes Dean off his lap, moves that infernal mouth of his away from the shell of his ear, and straddles his brother like they’re already fucking. There’s a pleasant little shock when their cocks brush together, and Sam makes a whining noise. 

“Do it,” he says, “go on and do it.”

Dean does it. He grabs Sam by his hips and in an astonishing move stands up while keeping Sam’s legs around his waist, and walks them to the bedroom. He spreads Sam out on the bed and tells him to take off his clothes. He gets the lube.

They’ve fucked before. Dean has let Sam fuck him pretty much all the time for the last couple of months. Before that it there were competitions to see which of them could give the best blowjobs; best meaning fastest most of the time while they only had gas station restrooms to themselves. Before that, only a few days after the first kisses, it was furtive handjobs and hoping Dad was drunk or tired enough not to overhear.

This, Sam spreading his legs and making himself vulnerable and letting Dean inside him, this was special. This was something they had discussed seriously, all dirty words and fantasies aside, and it was something they’d planned carefully. Sam wanted it from the beginning, but Dean insisted they wait for a special occasion, and that was now.

Sam was used to taking Dean’s fingers, loved them, even, but tonight he hardly had the patience for Dean fingering him, even though Dean crooked his pointer finger just so an stabbed roughly at Sam’s prostate.

“Come on,” Sam was saying, “come on, hurry it up, I won’t break. God, Dean. Oh, God.”

“How bad do you want it?” Dean was looking intently at where Sam’s rim was stretched around his fingers, changing the angle and the pace every few thrusts to keep Sammy on his toes. 

“I want it so bad, I want it, I want it, please, please fuck me.”

It wasn’t that Dean took pity on Sam. He could listen to sweet, innocent little Sammy begging and moaning all night. In fact, he’d do just that sometime soon. Right now he didn’t want to deny himself any longer. He’d been playing it cool, afraid that if Sam understood just how badly Dean wanted it, that they would rush it. They weren’t rushing it, though. They’d waited long enough.

He pulled his fingers out and slathered his cock in lube. Then he crawled up Sam’s body and kissed him for a while. They were hungry, open-mouthed kisses, the ones that Sam affectionately called tongue fucking, the ones he laid back for and allowed Dean to rain upon him. Then, in a moment of spectacular coordination, he pushed in while still kissing Sam.

As Dean’s cockhead caught on the rim, rubbed against it a little, then pushed in, Sam’s mouth went slack. 

“Uugh,” he moaned. Then, after a moment of breathing harshly, “Go on. I can take it.”

Dean thrusted in experimentally. It was amazing. It was unbelievable. It felt so good, and the best part of it was that Sam was absolutely loving it, that he was moaning and grinding against Dean, trying to get him deeper, trembling with the pleasure on it.

“Come on, come on. Dean, fuck me like you mean it.”

Dean grunted, whispered “I aim to please,” and picked up the pace. After that there was just the quickened sound of their breathing, the slap-slap-slap of skin on skin, and the blinding pleasure building between them. This, Dean thought, was heaven. This was all he ever wanted. Then Sammy made a high, keening sound, and his muscles clenched deliciously on Dean’s cock, and they both came, more or less at the same time. 

After, Sam cried a little, and Dean held him. They didn’t speak, they didn’t have to. It was glorious between them, it was beautiful. Sam cried for the transience of the moment, and Dean held him to help him hold on.


	7. 7. I Want You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Eve 2003, boys are 20 and 24 years old.

7\. **I Want You - Elvis Costello & The Attractions **  
_I want you/ I’m afraid I won't know where to stop/ I want you/ I’m not ashamed to say I cried for you_

His dorm is big. It’s way bigger than Sam had expected, it’s bigger than most of the motel rooms they used to stay at, and this one, Sam has all to himself. The emptiness of it, the darkness, the coldness of his sheets is absolutely soul-wrenchingly terrible.

There’s people everywhere, he shares a kitchen and a bathroom and a cafetaria with them as well as a hallway, and the place is always crawling with civilians. It makes Sam crazy, because they make it very hard for him to keep up his salt lines, and more than once he’s woken up to noises from his neighbors, gun already in his hand before he realizes what’s going on.

Most of all, though, he just misses Dean. It was a terrible thing, leaving him behind, especially the suddenness of it all. Sam honestly hadn’t expected John to send him away immediately, and there was hardly any time for goodbyes. The last kiss they had, Sam remembers, was in a gas station bathroom, and it was quick and dirty and delicious, but it wasn’t tender and it certainly wasn’t meant to be goodbye.

He doesn’t own a lot of stuff, for obvious reasons, but he’s tried to furnish the room in an attempt to make it feel smaller, fuller, more lived-in. There’s a poster on the wall of Pamela Anderson, which is exciting not because of her but because he nicked it from Dean. There’s a bed by the window that he doesn’t lie in, usually. He just sits propped up against the wall, pretending it’s a chair, pretending Dean’s just in the shower, then falls asleep late and wakes up late with a crick in his neck.

There’s a desk and a bookcase which holds nothing but the required reading. There aren’t any family photos. He doesn’t own any, and if he did he’d hide them because Dean’s piercing green eyes and Dad’s accusing dark ones hurt too much to bear.

Tonight he’s given in and actually laid down on the bed, burrowed under the comforter and crawled against the radiator because his room is unusually drafty for Palo Alto. He’s deliberately not thinking of how it’s Christmas Eve and of all the Christmases that came before and who he shared them with. He’s definitely not thinking of Dean’s soft smile upon receiving a present, of the way his mouth tastes after eating a homemade gingerbread cookie. He’s not thinking of the ridiculous Christmas sweater Dean used to wear, the one that was too small for him so it showed the sensitive insides of his wrists, and how Sam would kiss them when Dad wasn’t looking and make Dean shiver. He’s not thinking of any of that, except for how he is, and suddenly he’s achingly hard in a way he hasn’t been for months.

He’s been keeping all thoughts of sex far from his mind, because they’re inextricably linked to thoughts of Dean and he just can’t handle those. Except now they’re all barreling down on him at once, and he just can’t fight it. He’s curled up on his side in a fetal position, his cock hard, and he yanks down his soft cotton sweats and starts fucking his fist.

He imagines, no, he remembers, when it was Dean behind him, pressing himself into the curve of Sam’s ass, whispering encouragements in his ear and tightening his fist every time Sam pushed into it. For a little while, his tight grip around his cock feels incredibly good, good enough to disappear into a haze of arousal, good enough to forget that there is no Dean behind him, that he is only warm because the radiator’s on, that he’s only fucking his own fist and not Dean’s. He comes, quickly, because it’s been way too long.

As his orgasm abates, the truth hits like a sledgehammer, so painful that it almost wasn’t worth the momentary reprieve. Dean isn’t here. Dean is god-knows-where fighting god-knows-what. Dean might be getting his dick sucked by a diner waitress right now. He might have been hurt on the job, he might be in the hospital, all alone. He might even be dead.

Sam cries, then. He cries and cries and cries some more, and in the end, when his head aches and his eyes feel sore and his chest hurts like his heart is missing, but the sadness has only grown, he forces himself to stop crying and turns to his biochemistry textbook. It’s two in the morning.

He doesn’t call Dean. He’s too afraid there won’t be an answer.


	8. 8. Hearts Of Stone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Eve 2004, boys are 21 and 25 years old

8\. **Hearts Of Stone - Southside Johnny & The Asbury Jukes ******

_And you cry because things ain't like before/ well don't you know they can't be that way anymore/ but don't worry baby/ but I can't talk now, I'm not alone/ so put your ear close to the phone/ ‘cause this is the last dance, this is the last chance for hearts of stone_

On Christmas Eve 2004, Dean calls him. Sam’s out with some people he’s met in class, and it takes him a couple of rings to answer the phone. Dean’s about ready to hang up when there’s a breathy “Hey, who’s this?” on the other end of the line. 

For a brief moment, standing in the junkyard in South Dakota, the world ends for Dean. There is only Sam’s voice, the casual way he says “hi,” the way there’s music pounding in the background like Sam’s out, probably out with people, probably out with a girl, and he has a life of his own with people and events in it that Dean knows nothing about. 

“Sam,” he manages, and he hears the sharp intake of breath. “It’s me.” 

“Dean.” 

For a moment neither of them know what to say, but they don’t hang up, either. They wouldn’t hang up if their lives depended on it. 

In the end, Dean is the first one to regain his footing. He always is. “I just wanted to wish you a merry Christmas.” 

Sam nods, then whispers: “Yeah. You too.” 

“How’ve you been?” 

It’s a terrible question, because Sam’s been miserable. He’s had the most miserable days of his life, days of living off less than they used to eat even in the worst of times, days of endangering his life not by fighting monsters, but by an all-encompassing nothingness. Most of the time, without Dean, he fears he’ll just fade away. He’s not going to say that, though. 

The worst part is that Dean, secretly, just a tiny little bit in the most secret part of his heart, hopes that Sam is unhappy. He hopes that he is not the only one so fundamentally fucked up as to be unable to sleep alone, even after all those years. He wonders whether Sam has ever cried over cherry pie, the way Dean cried over a Caesar salad the other day. He wonders, but he doesn’t ask. Neither of them ask for the truth, and neither want to be the first one to tell it. 

“I’ve been good, Dean. California is great.” 

“That’s… that’s great, Sammy. Great.” 

Before Sam can say anything else, Dean’s already hung up the phone. They don’t speak on the phone again. 


	9. 9. Dancing In The Moonlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Eve 2006, boys are 23 and 27 years old

9\. **Dancing In The Moonlight- Thin Lizzy**  
 _Dancing in the moonlight/ it’s caught me in its spotlight_

It’s a terrible thing, really. They’re in the car, speeding in the direction of Arizona for some kind of hunt Sam hasn’t paid attention to. It’s exactly the way he remembers it being, all of those years, stiflingly hot and suffocating and awkward and Dean across the console.

Sam sits and thinks about Jess and Stanford and the scorching dry smell of flames, and he looks at Dean. A single bead of sweat is making its way down the back of Dean’s neck, and Sam breathes in deeply and he can smell it, he can smell the sun and the heat and the leather seats and the sweat, and just like it used to be, he wants Dean so badly it hurts.

Thin Lizzy is playing, and just as the silence falls between Southbound and Dancing In The Moonlight, Sam decides he’s had enough.

“Dean,” he says. He says it’s like he’s tired, like it’s an admonishment.

“Yeah?” Dean’s nonchalance is all faked.

“What do you want?”

Dean wants Sam. He wants to kiss him and hold him and whisper sweet nothings in his ear, the way he used to. He wants to reclaim Sam, to have him all to himself. Without Dad, he even wants to change his last name and go through life as Sam’s partner in more than just crime. But it’s only been a few months since Jessica and Dean has always been selfless when it came to his brother.

“Well, a cheese and bacon burger would be good right about now,” he says. 

Sam lets out an annoyed huffing noise, and god damn it Dean has missed that noise.

“That’s not what I meant, jerk.”

“Bitch, what did you mean?”

“I meant,” a pause. “I meant, what do you want from me?”

Dean raises his eyebrows. “A break from the bitching would be good.”

“Fine!” Sam shouts. “Fine. Fuck you.”

It’s another fifty miles before Dean figures out what to say, what he should have answered to Sam’s question.

“Sam,” he says, “you got me dancing in the moonlight, man. Always have.”

Sam laughs at that. It’s so cheesy, so absolutely Dean to just fucking quote song lyrics as though they explain everything. The funny things is, they kind of do. He keeps laughing for a little while, a big happy belly laugh that doesn’t die down but remains in the grin on his face.

“Stop the car?” Sam asks.

Dean pulls over by the side of the road and then they’re kissing, and it’s so good, it’s so much better than his memory was capable of reconstructing, and they love each other so much Sam thinks the weight of it might crush him. 

He allows Dean to pull him out of the car, and right there, on some deserted high way god-knows-where, Dean and Sam dance in the moonlight on Christmas Eve of 2006.


	10. 10. Can't Stay Alone Tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Eve 2010, boys are 27 and 31 years old

10\. **Can’t Stay Alone Tonight - Elton John**  
 _You're the last chance on the highway/ I’m that open stretch of road/ you’re the diner in my rear-view/ a cup of coffee getting cold_

 

Dean’s been hurt enough times to be familiar with the feeling of pain, friendly even. There have been times when he welcomed its sharp presence, the way it made everything around him shine with unnatural, bright clarity. This is not one of them.

It’s Christmas Eve, and the night seems to echo all of the nights that came before it. He thinks of the Christmas Eves spent huddled up with Sam in the backseat of the Impala. He thinks of the Christmas Eve’s spent circling each other like predators, gauging the risk and reward of pouncing. He thinks of the mistletoe and of California and the dance they shared on the shiny asphalt and of last year’s exchange of presents wrapped in the funny papers. He thinks of Sam’s smile when he unwrapped the ring, the one identical to Dean’s. He cries a little bit.

Sam’s in the pit, has been for what seems like forever. To him, it might very well actually be forever. He hasn’t managed to drag himself to Lisa yet, he can’t ask her to put him back together when he’s sure he’s irreparably broken. The promise he made Sam, the vow to go to her, to not let happen the exact thing that’s happening right now, weighs heavily on him.

It was never like this, before. When Sam was in Palo Alto, at least Dean was with Dad. He could rest easy, or relatively easy, in the knowledge that his heart was breaking, his soul was hurting, but it was all for the greater good. He felt surprisingly weightless during those days. It was the ultimate sacrifice, the ultimate conclusion to a life lived selflessly, a life lived to make his little brother happy.

This was the exact opposite. His pain didn’t serve any purpose. Averting the apocalypse, sure, but that seemed tiny and insignificant compared to the task of being, of existing without Sammy. Even worse, he was forced to exist knowing that Sam existed somewhere, somewhere where he could not be reached, and was being subjected to the most heinous methods of torture. He wasn’t missing Sam so Sam could have a better life without him, he was missing Sam at the time that Sam needed him most. And that was, to Dean, the most heinous method of torture.

He takes the last sip of whisky from the bottle and gets in the car. He’s driving to Lisa’s tonight.


	11. 11. Thunder Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Eve 2011, boys are 28 and 32 years old

11\. **Thunder Road - Bruce Springsteen**  
 _what else can we do now?/ except roll down the window and let the wind blow back your hair/ well, the night's busting open, these two lanes will take us anywhere/ we got one last chance to make it real/ to trade in these wings on some wheels/ climb in back, heaven's waiting on down the tracks_

Now that everything is back in his proper place, Dean can’t believe he hadn’t noticed it sooner. Sam without a soul wasn’t really Sam at all. He didn’t pet dogs, he didn’t sigh after the first cup of coffee, he never let Dean play with his hair. He never really smiled. 

Here Sam is again, soul and all, sitting next to Dean in the shotgun seat of their car, and his smile is so bright Dean could probably switch off the headlights, and Dean loves him so much it feels like he can fly.

“You realize it’s Christmas Eve, right?” his voice is testy, itching towards bitchy, and Dean can’t help but grin. God, but he loves this man. 

Dean turns Thunder Road up a bit louder, just because he knows it’s Sammy’s favorite song, and indeed, Sam starts drumming along with his fingertips on the dashboard. 

“Oh, I realize, Sammy.” he makes his voice low and dirty, and of course Sam notices. “I realize. Do you want to find a motel?”

“Not really,” Sam’s voice is shaky and it makes Dean’s knees weak and there’s something here he’s missing, and he’s going to find out what.

“What do you want, Sammy?”

Sam blushes and closes his eyes.

Again: “What do you want, baby boy?”

It works. Sam makes a choked off little noise and whispers: “I want you to fuck me in the backseat.”

Dean slams on the breaks. It’s irresponsible to drive when you’re so turned on you can’t see straight.

“Yeah?” he breathes.

“Yeah.”

It means a lot. It means a lot more than either of them know how to say, because there are so many memories in the backseat of that car. There all of the times they slept there as children, huddled together to keep out the cold. There’s the horrid handful of times one of them was laid out on that backseat, dripping blood all over the upholstery while the other was planking it to the emergency room. There’s kisses that happened in that backseat, and nights spent staring at the stars together, and there was one time where Dean gave Sam an achingly slow handjob, Dad asleep in the front seat all the while.

They both remember all those times as they get out of the car. It’s a dark night and they haven’t seen any other cars for hours. People don’t take road trips on Christmas Eve. That is to say, people that aren’t named Winchester don’t. 

Sam lays himself down in the backseat, trousers and shoes off but socked feet planted firmly on the road. Dean kneels between his legs and mouths at Sam’s cock. The taste of it makes him crazy.

When he was soulless, Sam hadn’t bottomed. That should have been a sign that something was wrong in and on itself, because Sammy loved bottoming, but Dean had decided not to ask about the traumas Sam had experienced in the Cage, and he’d assumed Sam’s sudden dislike of bottoming originated from a horrific experience with Lucifer. He had been relieved to hear, only days before, that that hadn’t been the case. So relieved, in fact, that he’d spent hours fingering and licking Sam’s hole, whispering things like “mine, all mine, this secret part of you is all for me, Sammy.” He’d fucked him then, and he was eager to fuck him now.

“Can you move it along?” Sam was leaking and flushed and hard, so fucking hard, and Dean licked at his cock head a little. Usually, asking Dean to move it along was the quickest way to get him to tease Sam for hours and make him beg for it, but it was Christmas and Dean was feeling generous.

As he went to the glove compartment and took out the lube, Sam was muttering “come on, come on, come on you fucker.”

That got him a pair of raised eyebrows from Dean. “What’s got you all worked up like this, Sammy?”

“Oh,” Dean was now fingering open Sam’s ass, and it made speaking in full sentences hard for Sam. “I was, oh fuck yes right there, I was planning on asking you to fuck me here. Ooh yes, come on, I’m more than ready. You son of a bitch, I’ve been thinking about it for hours already.”

Dean crooked his fingers a little, watched Sam’s eyes roll into the back of his head and then pulled his hand away carefully. “Oh yeah? Sammy, you dirty little boy. Hold your legs up for me.”

Sam grabbed the back of his thighs and held himself open for Dean. It looked delicious, to have Sam spread in the backseat of their car like that, where anyone could see. He was still wearing his gray socks, and it was such an adorable little detail that Dean just had to bend down and kiss him. Of course, the kiss lasted longer than he’d intended, and Sam ended up pulling away.

“Dean. Fuck me already.”

Dean repositioned Sam a little so there was some space for him to crawl into the backseat, and started pushing in. It was easy, it was so fucking easy and so fucking slick and Sam started moaning softly, bearing down on Dean, and Dean pushed back and then they were fucking, rocking back and forth ever so gently and Sam was begging him to go faster, to go harder, but at the same time the slowness, the thoughtfulness of Dean’s movements was so fucking intense, and then, before he knew it, Sam was coming all over himself in a sudden, hot rush. Dean tumbled after him, whited out for a moment, and then lay with Sammy for a long long time. Their bodies were sticky and exhausted but Dean managed to grab a blanket from the footwell and so they fell asleep, Dean softly carding his fingers through Sam’s hair.


	12. 12. Desperados Under The Eaves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Eve 2011, boys are 28 and 32 years old  
> Just so you know, there's one more chapter coming after this!

12\. **Desperados Under The Eaves - Warren Zevon**  
 _except in dreams you're never really free_

 

It had taken them a while to go back to California. Okay, so if Sam was being perfectly honest it had taken them years and years. Sam had blatantly refused to go back there after everything that had happened with Jess, and Dean wasn’t inclined to argue. During Sam’s Stanford years, Sam later found out, Dean had come down to Cali a dozen times, then changed his mind just outside of Palo Alto and drove back. They never discussed it again because it broke both their hearts.

Here they were, now, in Los Angeles. Actually, they were even in Hollywood, and they were in some ridiculously decorated Hawaii-themed bar. Sam had taken advantage of the situation and was sipping a bright orange drink with lots of fruit juice and an umbrella in it. Dean was drinking beer.

“I’m a little disappointed, to tell you the truth.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “I told you it was just a bunch of letters on a hill, dude.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t think you’d be right?”

“Oh! Because I’m never right about anything?” Sam wasn’t really offended, but banter was their go-to conversation starter these days, and it was always good to rile Dean up a bit.

“Well, you were wrong about the poltergeist.”

There was a brief silence. Sam took the last sip of his drink and made a slurping noise sucking air through the straw.

“I wasn’t.”

Dean looked up. “Huh?”

“I wasn’t wrong about the poltergeist, De.”

“Well, then what the fuck are we doing here? Lets go kill that son of a bitch!” He was already out of his seat, and Sam shot up immediately to stop him.

“No, that’s not what I meant.”

Dean was confused now, and Sam couldn’t blame him.

In a rush he blurted out: “I made it up.”

“Come again?”

“I made it up. I claimed I’d read about a poltergeist here because we were in the area and I wanted to swim.”

Dean looked at him like he suspected Sam might be crazy, or possessed. “We made a six hour detour so you could swim?”

“Yeah. Well, no.”

Dean nudged Sam with his foot. “Out with it, baby boy.”

Sam blushed. Dean hardly ever used that nickname outside of the bedroom, outside of the safe place where they were just them, just Sam and Dean and lovers, not the brothers Winchester. It made Sam feel safe, somehow, to hear the gentle way Dean called him “baby boy.” He knew that he could do no wrong in Dean’s eyes, not in the eyes of this Dean, not to the one that was all his. There was no such thing as a silly or stupid reason for the detour.

“We made a six hour detour so you could swim, Dean.”

There was another split-second of confusion and then Dean’s eyes lit up so bright with happiness and understanding and love that Sam had to look away. He didn’t see it coming when Dean leaned in and kissed him on the mouth. It was the eager, enthusiastic kind of kiss Sam remembered from their early days, when everything was hot and sticky and chaotic and so, so unbelievably fragile. It was nothing like the kisses of the past few years, always sweet and loving but careful and nostalgic, too. This kiss made Sam feel immortal.

The bartender cleared his throat loudly and Dean pulled away. “Well Sam,” Dean was blushing, “what are we waiting for?”

They’d never gone swimming in the ocean before. Literally, not once in their long lives. As kids they hadn’t had the time and John didn’t allow such frivolities, and as adults they’d been too grown-up to admit how badly they wanted to. Dean had told Sam of his secret wish, a long time ago, back when they were meeting Charlie to look over the Book of the Damned. Of course, Sam hadn’t forgotten.

The boys quickly put some bills on the bar and Dean kicked off his shoes. The cafe was overlooking the ocean. It had a big terrace on the beach. They were running, then, running like they almost never did, like they wanted to get to something rather than away from something, and stripping down to their underwear. Sam tripped trying to pull his pants down and Dean took advantage, speeding up as Sam was forced to slow down.

He hit the water first and it was cool and salty and amazing, and he turned around and yelled at Sam “I beat you! I won!”

Sam was hot on his heels and tackled Dean so they were both lying down on the sand in a shallow layer of water.

“No,” Sam breathed against his brother’s neck, “I’m pretty sure I’m the winner here.”

They kissed again, and it tasted deliciously salty.


	13. 13. Hey Brother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Eve 2029, boys are 46 and 50 years old  
> This is it folks, thanks so much for reading!

13\. **Hey Brother - originally by Avicii, covered by TEEMID & Tessa Rose Jackson**   
_Hey brother/ There’s an endless road to be discovered/ Hey sister/ Do you still believe in love, I wonder?_

It had to be Kansas, in the end. It always had to be Kansas. Not Lawrence, though, they always drive around Lawrence in a careful circle if they can avoid it, as though the place they were children together still smells of scorched flesh. Sam thinks that’s not the only reason, though. He doesn’t like the reminder that they were children together.

Of course, he likes it. He loves it, cherishes every early memory he has of being Dean’s little brother, of being protected and cared for by him. He’s still got the toy car Dean gave him for his sixth birthday, and he’s never letting that thing go.

But that’s not who they are anymore. These days, they’re Dean Winchester and Sam Campbell, and they’re married and they live together in Wamego, Kansas. On anniversaries they visit het Oz museum and reminisce about Charlie and her evil twin. There’s not a soul on earth but them who knows that they are brothers, that they are blood. It’s freeing and gorgeous. When they first moved there, the first time Dean kissed Sam on the mouth outside, sitting on the bench in the City Park, Sam cried a little. He was so relieved. They’ve spent almost every Sunday since walking the dog in the park and kissing and holding hands and being generally juvenile and disgusting.

Sam’s forty-six. If he lives another forty-six years, he’ll be ninety-two. He thinks he’d like to spend those years just the way they’re living now, exactly like this. It’s Christmas Eve and Dean has just unwrapped a new pair of fleece pajamas. He’s making happy noises and rubbing the fabric against his cheek and Sam is laughing at him from the kitchen, making hot chocolate.

It’s more perfect than any dream Sam’s ever had.


End file.
